light. By a little after three we were at the Morven Hills station, and in the dawning light one could imagine it was white with frost—an old-world Christmastide. The stream, down which the road runs, had increased in size since we crossed the watershed, and had become a noisy river between rocky defiles. We crossed it at a shallow ford where the homestead lay on a wide flat; weeping-willows and English trees lined the banks, and a shady road led past the house. And now we saw the cause of the whiteness. Every place was covered with dog daisies; river-banks, roadside, everywhere an advancing army crept over the hills. Sleek cows stood and lay about waiting for the milking. Among the station hacks a fine stag was grazing, who dashed into the river and disappeared over the hills, disturbed by our approach; a white horse whinnied at us and one or two dogs barked enquiringly, but otherwise the station was silent, wrapped in sleep. The shearers’ camp, a long row of white tents, seemed to have been newly pitched, the flaps up for coolness sake—let us see the men and packs lying about inside. We rode through them, and not a man lifted his head, and on across the flat where we saw another small herd of deer, which bounded away at sight of us.
There was only an hour’s riding from here—less if we hurried. But it was Sunday morning, and we did not want to disturb the people at the inn so early, so we dawdled along down a rocky
